Big Man on Campus
by writer314
Summary: Steve has found Bucky. Now he has to decide what to do with the rest of his life. Being a smart man, he chooses to get a college education, since most modern careers demand one, and the government's paying. Unfortunately, his day job sometimes intrudes. No Steve/OC pairings. Cameos by most, if not all, of the Avengers.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First, thank you to all of you who have favorited/followed me as an author. After only one story posted, that's quite flattering. As I'm sure you noticed from the summary, this story doesn't particularly involve Bucky (though he may yet make an appearance). I was wondering what Steve would do after finding Bucky. It seemed unlikely that he'd immediately rejoin Fury et al, given that he brought down SHIELD as well as HYDRA. And then I remembered the flagpole scene in CA1, and I knew exactly what he'd do. He'd get a college degree. On the GI Bill. Please feel free to imagine this is set at the college of your choice, although a division one school makes the most sense for later events.**

**As always, I own nothing, except my OCs, but they're just wallpaper.**

Steve took a deep breath and tried to settle his nerves. He had his books, his notebook, several pens, and his laptop. He had passed the entrance exams and been admitted without any favoritism based on the fact he'd saved the world and was friends with the man whose name was on the science building. Just because his high school teachers hadn't thought a working-class kid from Brooklyn belonged in college didn't mean they were right. Okay, he'd had to ask Bruce to tutor him on the math he hadn't studied in high school, but he could hardly be faulted for missing out on courses not offered in his high school in the 1930s. And he'd picked it up readily enough. Bruce had even suggested he consider majoring in math. He had fought HYDRA, the Chitauri, various terrorist organizations, HYDRA again, and his best friend (now working with his twenty-first century best friend to overcome HYDRA's conditioning and what Sam described as 'the most justified and severe case of PTSD, ever'), and won. He could handle college. Right.

He opened the door to the lecture hall, glad to see he was the first to arrive. He double checked his schedule to make sure he was in the right place at the right time: "Allies to Antagonists: US-Soviet Relations From 1945 to the Present", MWF, 8-9:15 am, Lincoln Hall, room 121. He found a seat in the center of the front row, conveniently located near an outlet for his laptop, just in case Tony had decided to drain its battery as a good luck prank. He set up his workspace, taking care not to impinge on the space the students that would be next to him would require. He then pulled out the required text on the Yalta and Potsdam conferences. He had read it before, and liked it, which was one of the reasons he had signed up for this class. The professor was the book's author. He opened it to the part he had always found most confusing - Churchill's 'naughty document' describing postwar power-sharing arrangements on the continent - and began to reread the section.

Professor Ellery Shawcross stopped short as she entered the lecture hall. She checked her watch. She checked to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. No, there was, in fact, a student in the lecture hall, prepared for class, indeed, well into the fourth week's reading assignment, a full half-hour before the class's already early start time. "Hello?" She cringed internally as her tone made the greeting a question.

Steve marked his place and looked up. He saw a small woman with cute features and overloaded arms. He jumped out of his seat. "Let me help you with those! Are you Professor Shawcross' teaching assistant?"

Ellery laughed. "Thank you, and no, this course isn't big enough to warrant a grader, much less a teaching assistant, but you're sweet to pretend I look that young. I'm Ellery Shawcross, your professor."

Steve put down the load that he had taken from her on the front desk. He offered her his hand. "Steve Rogers, ma'am."

"And now I feel old. I always do when you ROTC folks call me 'ma'am'."

"ROTC?" Steve hadn't run into the acronym before, and was quite confused as to what it might have to do with manners.

Ellery frowned. "Reserve Officer Training Corps? Sorry, it's just that the military trainees are the only ones, well, except you clearly, who call any of us ma'am or sir."

"Well, I was military. I'm not anymore."

"A Vet then? Well, thank you for your service. And that certainly explains your ability to commit to the early hours for this class. Between you and me, that's why I ask for this time slot. The slackers self-select out of the course and I don't have to put up with them."

"But don't high schools start earlier than 8?" Steve thought someone had told him that when he remarked at how early school buses seemed to be on the roads.

"Yes, but somehow, the students all turn into slug-a-beds, as my mother would say, the moment they hit a college campus. Is this your first semester here, Steve?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"What are you thinking of majoring in?"

"A friend of mine suggested I consider math, but for now, I'm concentrating on the diversity requirements. I'm hoping something will jump out at me in the process. Isn't that how it's supposed to go?"

"That's as good a plan as any, and better than most. So, what other requirements are you getting out of the way?"

Steve pulled out his schedule. "Russian 110, Twentieth Century American Literature, Calculus 1, and Physics 110."

"You do like a challenge, don't you?"

Steve smiled. "Yes, ma'am, but I have friends who are willing to help me if I need it with everything but the literature. Actually, one of my friends has already switched entirely to Russian when he speaks to me. I'm not sure he's not cursing at me, but I hope to be able to figure it out soon."

Just then, the door opened again, and Ellery turned, delighted to have two early birds in the same section. Her face fell when the gorgeous newcomer looked straight at her original early bird, ignoring her own presence entirely. Naturally, the attractive, interested student had to be involved with someone. Not that she'd date a student, of course, but a former student, who wasn't that much younger than her own 31 years? Worth considering.

"Rogers, we have a situation."

"Tasha, can't it wait? This is my first class! It's over at 9:15, and then I'm free until Russian at 3."

"Sure, we'll just ask von Strucker to wait a few hours before he tries to level New York. I'm sure he won't mind. Wait, you're taking Russian? Pravda?" And then she switched into her native tongue.

"Nat."

"Nat."

"Natasha!"

She stopped speaking.

"I don't even start Russian until 3, and Bucky's already giving me the full immersion treatment. Could you just stick to English for now?"

"That depends. Are you getting in the Quinjet with me? Or do I have to get Tony and Sam to take you by hand?"

Steve sighed and turned to Ellery. "I'm really sorry about this. Could I stop by your office hours and talk to you about what I've missed?"

Ellery pulled a syllabus from a folder on her desk. "Fortunately, today's mostly procedural, so read this thoroughly, and yes, come see me, or email, if you have questions. Otherwise, I'll see you Wednesday morning."

"Thank you, ma'am. I apologize for missing class."

"Well, whoever this von Strucker fellow is, he doesn't sound like the type to enjoy waiting, but perhaps you could remind him that you're a student now, not a soldier?"

The redhead laughed. "With respect, professor, I don't think terrorists give a rat's ass if he wants to play student. They still want to own the planet. Coming, Cap?"

Steve had packed his things, so he picked up his bag, nodded to the professor and followed the Black Widow out of the building.

She had parked the Quinjet on the Quad. Steve couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Fortunately, most of the students were still in bed, so it was unlikely many had noticed its presence. Maybe he still had a chance at being a 'typical' student.

Ellery went through the motions of her first lecture, which was mostly housekeeping anyway, preoccupied with thoughts of her early arrival (and departure). He had certainly implied that he was no longer in the military. He was even wearing civilian clothes, unlike most of the ROTC kids. Yet clearly the government still had the ability to call on him in a crisis for some reason. The woman had called him "Cap"; a reference to his rank - captain? It was a fairly common abbreviation. And he definitely knew her.

Two days later, Ellery was pleased to see her early bird was once again in his seat before she arrived.

"I take it the world didn't end, then." She greeted him with a cheery grin.

"Uh, no, ma'am." He stood and went over to help her with her things again.

That was when she saw the damage. One of his eyes had been blackened, and one of his ears looked like something had chewed on it.

"Oh my! Are you all right?"

Steve forced a self-deprecating chuckle. "It looks worse than it feels, I promise."

"Shouldn't you be in a hospital?"

"Oh, no. I spent too much time in hospitals as a kid. I try to avoid them as much as possible."

Ellery filed this piece of information away, and switched the subject. "So it looks like you'll have two helpers with your Russian?"

"Actually, Nat's ordered Bucky not to speak to me in Russian, so he's stopped. Something about giving me a Polish accent, I think. But Nat's a native speaker, so she assures me she has neither an accent nor bad linguistic habits, whatever she means by that." His mouth tilted into the most appealing smile at the memory. "However, I did talk her out of speaking only Russian to me, if only because it didn't make sense operationally."

"Operationally?"

"Well, I doubt first semester Russian is going to cover 'RPGs at your 10 o'clock', for example. And I would prefer that neither I nor my teammates end up dead because I didn't understand a warning."

"So you're still in the service then?"

"Not...exactly."

"Cap..." a new voice entered the room.

"Seriously, Stark?" Steve's tone was more amused exasperation then anything else. "I know you graduated from college before you bought the planet. Could you at least let me get through a class before whatever you think has to happen this instant actually happens? I mean, you're a great friend and all, but trying to get an education here."

"Nonsense, Capsicle. If you really wanted an education, you'd be studying engineering, or with your drawing skills, maybe architecture. Anyway, not the same stuff you've been reading since you defrosted. Plus, I was on campus. They want a new wing for the library or something."

"Okay, well, that's...great. But I have class now. If you want to meet back here at 9:20, we could get coffee like normal people."

"Cap. Cap. Cap. How many times do I have to tell you? I'm a billionaire genius philanthropist playboy..."

"Better not let Pepper hear that last one, Tony."

"Fine, ex-playboy-turned-devoted-boyfriend, and you're what, a hundred and two on your last birthday? Neither of us fits anyone's definition of normal."

"Speak for yourself. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn. Everything special about me came out of a lab."

"Why must I be surrounded by people who turn my own words against me?"

"OMG! You're, like, Tony Stark!" The first of Steve's classmates had, apparently, arrived.

"Er, a common mistake, we do look a lot alike, but no, definitely not Tony Stark, not at all. I'll see you later, Steve. For that coffee we normal people drink."

"Sure." Steve watched Tony nearly flee the building, and then turned back to Ellery. "Sorry about that. Actually, I suspect you'll meet all of my friends eventually. They seem to think this whole college thing will corrupt me or something. Half them are actively trying to prevent that, and the other half are actively encouraging it. So they're all probably going to find a reason to check out the experiment. And since they're quite busy during normal business hours, well, you're likely to bear the brunt of that, I'm afraid."

"And you?" Ellery was truly curious now. Her student the soldier clearly had friends in high places.

"I've learned not to discount anything, but I doubt what goes on here is really all that corrupting. After all..."

"Um, excuse me?" Another student had arrived.

Both Steve and Ellery turned to the newcomer.

"Are you Captain America? Because you totally look like him. Can I have your autograph? Are you guest lecturing when we get to clandestine services?" All of the girl's words sort of blended into one jumble because she was speaking so fast.

Steve managed to parse out their meaning, though. It was a reaction he'd seen before. His vision of a 'normal' collegiate experience went out the window. Maybe he should have gone with MOOCs. He bit back a sigh and took the questions in order. "Yes. Sure. No, I'm taking the class, not teaching it." He ripped a piece of paper from his notebook. "What's your name?"

"Julie. My name is Julie"

Steve inscribed a brief, personalized if still impersonal, message on the page and signed it. He handed it to the girl, and added, "I'm trying to get a study group together, Tuesdays at four in the library's third floor conference room, if you want to join."

"Oh my gosh! I am so there! Thanks!"

Ellery watched the entire exchange in stunned silence. Of course he was Captain America. Which made Nat...a deadly assassin, on top of being his Russian tutor. She didn't remember any Avengers named Bucky, though. The Howling Commando that died during the war had been called Bucky, but that made no sense, since that Bucky wouldn't have spoken Russian, not to mention the incidental fact that he was dead. Which was too bad, because he had been a stone fox. Something else to ponder.

As Julie found her seat and the rest of the class rushed in, Ellery asked Steve if he wanted her to announce his study group's time and place.

He nodded.

"Good morning, Ladies and gentlemen. Today, we will be discussing the origins of the Cold War in allied relations, but first, I have one announcement. Steve has arranged to have the library's third floor conference room at four o'clock on Tuesdays, so that a study group for this class can meet there. Anyone who would like to join him is welcome."


	2. Recruitment

**A/N: Thank you to those who have favorited/followed, and especially reviewed. Your feedback is much appreciated. Those who are concerned about the OCs should read the a/n after this chapter. Those who don't want 'spoilers' should avoid it.**

**Although no one has mentioned it, I want to acknowledge that I am well aware that my OCs are, for the most part, cardboard stereotypes, especially the students. I had one class with one meeting at 8 am in my entire college career, because I am not a morning person (and I had 6:30 am synchro practice two or three times a week; yeah, that made me grouchy even though it was optional). Neither Steve nor Clint is intended to be homophobic, but please let me know if they come off that way.**

**As always, I own nothing but the cardboard OCs.**

"So, you're really, like, ninety years old? 'Cause you're way hotter than my landlord and he's only, like, 35." The inane chatter continued in the same vein, interrupted only by popping gum, switching voices as each of the new study group members signed up for the email list.

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was beginning to understand Stark's attitude problems a little better. A person could only answer the same inquiry so many times before patience began to wear through, especially when the inquiry seemed designed to embarrass the person being asked.

At last, everyone seemed to be signed up and seated.

Steve opened his notebook and his text. As the founder, and therefore host (if only in his own mind) of the study group, he felt obligated to go first. "Does anyone understand what Churchill was doing when he signed the 'naughty document'? I mean, he hated Stalin, so why concede anything?"

A young woman with curly brown hair and glasses spoke up. "I've always seen it as an example of Churchill's realism. He knew the Red Army was already in control of most of the areas he was ceding to Soviet domination, and I think on some level, he hoped to use the 10% control he reserved for the West as leverage to keep those countries at least nominally free from total Soviet control. Of course, that didn't work out any better than Munich. I'm Alexa, by the way."

The study group evolved quickly. Those who were there to be a part of the Captain America fan club soon grew bored of the historical discussions and stopped coming. That did not put an end to the awkwardness, however.

Word had spread around campus about the celebrity in the library. One Tuesday, after the football team had suffered a nearly catastrophic loss to their rival, the coach appeared in the conference room as Steve was setting up the small snack table.

"So, how's your throwing arm?"

Since Steve had no idea who the coach was, he was a tad confused. "Fine, sir. Are you lost?"

"Nope. I'm looking for you, son. I think we can help each other. How'd you like to graduate without any student loans to pay off?"

"With respect, the US government is paying most of my tuition, and I've got the rest covered."

"But I bet you always wanted to play on a big time college football team when you were a kid, right?"

"No, sir. I wanted to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Football wasn't really a thing when I was young. In any case, I had asthma, so I couldn't even play stickball for more than five minutes at a time."

The coach continued as if he hadn't heard a word, "Well, now's your chance. This here's our playbook. You just learn what you can and show up to practice tomorrow, and we'll get you through it."

"Sir, I think that would be a serious violation of NCAA rules, don't you?"

"No. Looked at 'em myself with the AD this morning. Not a damn thing in there about superheroes."

"I believe the NCAA's stance on performance-enhancing substances is pretty clear."

"What? You take steroids? I don't believe it, son."

By now, Steve was losing his temper. He had more important things to do than massage this twit's ego, especially since he was old enough to be the twit's father, or even grandfather. "No, I don't take steroids. I was given a drug that transformed me from a ninety pound weakling into a superhero, more than seventy years ago. I'm pretty sure that fits the spirit of 'performance-enhancing substance', even if 'super-soldier serum' isn't specifically banned. You don't seem to be very good at listening, so I'm going to say this one more time, and I'll use very small words. I will not be joining your team. Ever. Understand?"

"Do _you_ understand how difficult I can make your life? I can see to it that your scholarship gets pulled! I can make sure you never get the classes you need to graduate..."

"I can make sure you never speak to my friend, or anyone else, with disrespect again."

The coach looked over to the door, ready to bawl out the newcomer as well, only to find himself staring down the shaft of a very pointy arrow. He fell back on his default: belligerence. "Who the hell are you?"

"So sorry; I forgot to introduce myself. The papers call me 'Hawkeye'. I'm an assassin, or I was; now I'm one of the Avengers. And I should point out that, as a group, we did take down a demigod and an alien invasion. I should also point out that Captain Rogers, the Black Widow, and Falcon pretty much took out HYDRA by themselves a few months back. So, of the people in this room, who is the one that's completely not intimidating? Right, you. I think Steve's given you his answer. Buh-bye."

The coach opened his mouth to reply, but Clint cut him off.

"Leave and live. Stay and die. Your choice."

The coach moved more quickly than he had in years.

"Spare a cookie for a friend?"

Steve tossed him one, along with a small container of milk. "You might not want to stick around. There's a hard core Hawkeye fan in the study group."

"Oh? Is she cute?" Clint hadn't been on a date in months, and a one-night stand with a willing college girl could be a nice way to scratch that itch without complications, specifically, a relationship.

Steve frowned, considering. "I suppose, in a she's-a-he-and-is-way-too-serious-about-ultimate-frisbee kind of way. His name's Josh."

Clint grinned. "So, not my type then. Darn. Just came by to let you know Pepper's having a surprise party for Stark tonight, very hush, hush, seven sharp. Thanks for the snack." And he was gone.

**A/N: Yes, this chapter's short. It's likely most will be from here on out. Okay, spoilers: most of the OCs will continue to be one-line extras. First exception is obviously the professor, who I freely admit has a lot of me in her (I teach history, and Cold War/Nuclear history is kind of my thing), which is why she will NOT be involved with any of the Marvel characters in a romantic way. Because eeeewww. No one wants to see that, not even me. The other OC that I intend to flesh out will be Steve's Physics lab partner. I'm thinking African-American Vietnam-era veteran. Lots of potential to explore there (remember: history teacher). If you want to know about Churchill's 'naughty document' or any other historical events mentioned in the story, please feel free to PM me, and I'll be happy to bore you with details.**

**I try to reply to all PMs and reviews, but some don't go through to my email, and I haven't quite figured out emailing from the site yet. Have patience.**


	3. The Force of Gravity is Constant

**A/N: Thank you to all of you have favorited/followed/reviewed. I'm immensely flattered that you're interested in the plot bunnies that race around my brain.**

**I know it's hard to take, but Marvel still owns all these characters, not me (except George and his grandson).**

**FYI: For those of you who are not American, Howard University is a private university in Washington DC, whose students, traditionally, have been predominantly African-American. Much like the 'Seven Sisters' (women's colleges founded to provide women with the education they could not get at Harvard et al, because the Ivies didn't take women), Howard and similar universities were founded to provide people of color the educational opportunities they could not find in the segregated schools of the American South (and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the US). In CA1, we learned that Gabe attended Howard before he joined the army.**

Steve had been surprised to see the front row center seat taken before he arrived for his first Physics class. He took the next seat over and introduced himself to the older African-American gentleman. "Hi, I'm Steve. This is the first time someone's beaten me to a class!"

"I'm George. Looks like I have some competition for 'first come, first served' seating."

"It's all right; I can share. After all, if we 'non-traditional age students' don't stick together, the children will win."

"Son, you don't look much older than them to me," George replied skeptically.

"And yet I'm older than you."

"Say what now? Boy, I was born in 1945, which makes me old enough to be your grandfather!"

"With respect, sir, that makes me old enough to be your father. I was dead, sort of, by 1945."

"You're that Captain America fellow! My grandson's dying to go that Smithsonian exhibit. He thinks you're the greatest thing since sliced bread. Is it true that one of your Howling Commandos was a Howard man?"

"Yes, sir. Gabe was a great soldier and a good man. I was proud to have him on my team."

"Well, that was very progressive for the 1940s."

"I never did like bullies much. I've been reading about the Civil Rights Movement since I ... got back. I'd like to think I'd have had the courage they displayed, taking all that abuse and never defending themselves. That's guts."

"No need to tell me that. My daddy kept us out of it mostly. We lived in Detroit, so we didn't have it nearly so bad as those folks down South. Still, it was bad enough. Daddy never made the same money as the white fellas at the factory, never got the promotions he should have. But he kept his head down, because at least he had a job that provided for his family, and there were plenty in our neighborhood that couldn't say the same."

"That's a kind of courage, too. It's too bad that it's so undervalued, that kind of daily courage. I mean, facing battle is never fun, but wars end. That kind of battle never seems to."

"If there's one thing I learned in Vietnam, Steve, it's that we're all fighting the same damn war, and it doesn't matter whether you're a front-line grunt or a simple line cook. Either way, there're gonna scars and you're gonna lose some friends. It was true in Detroit, too."

Steve shook his head. "Vietnam. What an awful war. Don't get me wrong, all wars are bad, but a conflict where you don't know who the enemy is from day to day and you're not sure what it's about in the first place? Makes all the horror of World War II seem, I don't know, cleaner somehow. At least we knew who we were fighting and why."

In short, the two veterans had bonded completely before the professor or any of their fellow students arrived. Comparing schedules, they discovered they were in the same lab section, and they quickly agreed to be lab partners.

By early October, they were fast friends, chatting easily before each class as they waited for the rest of the class to arrive.

"My grandson's coming to visit this weekend for Columbus Day. It's his first plane trip by himself."

Steve chuckled and said, "Well, I sure hope it goes better than my first plane trip." He paused and then added thoughtfully, "Maybe we should start our data collection for our lab project while he's here."

George frowned. "I'm still not clear how we're going to get you into the air, and how you're going to survive being dropped."

"The landing's not a problem, and some friends of mine will probably be willing to do the dropping. Heck, Tony'll probably think it's the most fun he's had in years. And Sam's always kind enough to help out."

"If you're sure..."

"How about we meet at 11 on Saturday at the boat house? Bring your grandson. I bet he'd like my friends."

"Grandpa, I can't believe you're making me help you with schoolwork on a Saturday! And making me miss the History Channel's 'Captain America and the Howling Commandos' marathon."

"There are worse things in life than missing a television program. Plus, I think you might enjoy this, Gabe."

The boy, whose name was really George, after his grandfather, had insisted on being called 'Gabe' since he first learned of the Howling Commandos. In typical thirteen-year-old fashion, he rolled his eyes at his grandfather's assertion, certain nothing could be better than the tv show he was missing.

A motor approached, and what sounded like jets fired overhead. Both Georges looked about in confusion.

Steve pulled up on his motorcycle. He waved to George as he approached, a gym bag in his other hand. "Morning, George. This must be your grandson. Hi, I'm Steve Rogers, your grandfather's lab partner." He held out his hand to the boy.

The boy began to reach out to shake Steve's hand, his jaw still on the ground at the appearance of his hero. However, his attention was pulled away as Falcon and Iron Man landed on the dock. "You're black! There aren't any black superheroes! Everyone knows that."

"Oh, I'm not..." Sam began.

Steve interrupted with uncharacteristic rudeness. "Of course he's a superhero! He can fly, can't he? Sam, Tony, this is my lab partner George, and his grandson, Gabe. George, Gabe, these are some of my friends, Sam, also known as Falcon, and Tony, who, as you already know, is Iron Man." Steve's eyes told Sam not to contradict him on the superhero thing. He had learned enough from George about his grandson to realize that an African-American superhero would be a welcome addition to the hero shrine in the boy's bedroom. Plus, if Tony became a superhero by putting on a suit, why couldn't Sam become one by strapping on his wings?

"Wow. Falcon. That's a really cool name. Did you make your wings yourself?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah. I got my first wings from the government, when I was in the service. These were made by Tony here."

Tony had opened his visor, and was shaking George's hand. "Nice to meet you. Thanks for giving us an excuse to drop Steve here on his head. Been a long time coming."

Steve was stripping off his clothes, revealing a wetsuit underneath. He folded his clothes neatly and put them in the gym bag after removing a dive belt and a large pile of dive weights. "Did you bring the timers Tony?"

"Yup. Here's the one that straps onto the dive belt. It will start and stop automatically."

"What exactly are we doing here, anyway, Cap?" asked Sam. "I mean, I get our part in the plan, but what's the purpose?"

"For our Physics lab, we're supposed to recreate a classic experiment on gravity or electricity. So, we picked Galileo's experiment from the leaning tower of Pisa."

"And the reason you couldn't just drop a bowling ball and a baseball off the science building is?" Tony inquired with his patented Stark snark.

"Half the class is doing that. Doing it this way will give us two sets of data for the price of one, and demonstrate creativity with the methodology. Plus, it won't mess up the pavement. George, here's your timer."

"Thanks. Okay, let's go over the procedure before we start. Sam or Tony will take Steve up to an altitude of one hundred meters, without any additional weights. The carrier will let Gabe know that they've reached the correct starting point through the comms." He paused to hand Gabe the headset. "Gabe will acknowledge and will count down 3-2-1-mark. On mark, I will start the ground timer, and the carrier will drop Steve, starting his timer. We will stop the timers when Steve's feet hit the water. Then we'll repeat the experiment twice at the same weight, and then with weights increasing in increments of five kilograms, again for three trials each. Either Sam or Tony, whichever is not serving as the carrier on a particular trial, will serve as the data recorder. Does everyone understand his role?" He checked to make sure everyone nodded, and then continued, "Then let's get this show on the road!"

The experiment went more quickly than Steve and George had anticipated, so they repeated it from two hundred meters as well. After all the trials were complete, Steve and George made plans to meet after class on Tuesday to start crunching the numbers.

Gabe got pictures with each of his heroes separately, as well as a group shot, and a video message for his class back home. He also got a ride from Falcon, after solemnly promising his grandfather that he would never mention it to his dad.

After George and Gabe left, Sam asked Steve why he had told Gabe that Sam was a superhero.

"Seriously? You go into battle with no weapons but pistols and the wings on your back, with no armor or superfast healing ability or anything except raw guts. Honestly, you're way more of a hero than either of us. And he needs a modern African-American hero to look up to. Gabe was a great friend and a good man, but he's been dead for twenty years. Now, I believe I owe you both dinner for this escapade. My place in about an hour?"

Tony begged off, as he had plans with Pepper, but Sam nodded and said, "Okay, that sounds good. See you then."


	4. Feeling His Age

**A/N: Strangely, I still don't own any Marvel characters.**

**This chapter starts out a bit angsty, but I promise it doesn't stay that way. Also, no offense meant to English literature majors everywhere. My enduring disdain for ****_The_****_Great_****_Gatsby_**** comes from having any enjoyment of the book utterly ruined by my tenth grade English teacher. And I'm more of a Shakespeare girl, myself.**

**Thank you to all of you who are reading/following/paying attention to this little corner of the Marvel universe (however unofficial). I really appreciate it. A special thanks to those of you who have been kind enough to review/PM me with your thoughts. It means a lot that you're taking the time. I admit I'm writing these stories for me, but I'm glad others are enjoying them as well!**

**Also, one reviewer was curious about Russian class. I don't speak Russian (ok, I know please, thank you, hello, and goodbye), so while there may be a mention of Russian class, it is unlikely that the story will go there in any big way.**

Steve sat in the library, piles of thick tomes on the table in front of him. He dragged a hand through his hair, and sighed. He was beginning to realize that upper level math might not have been the only thing his high school didn't cover. He had never written a research paper in his life, a few essays, sure, but actual research with citations and a bibliography? Not so much. On the plus side, his topic was pretty interesting. On the down side, he worried that this paper might ruin his fondness for comic books. He sighed again and put the volume of literary criticism to one side.

He pulled out his calculus book. The math was turning out to be far easier than the literature. At least every problem had an answer, even if the answer was approximate or imaginary or 'no solution'. The literature was killing him.

The professor put a quote and a question on the board at the start of each two hour class and then sat back and watched as the twenty-five students engaged in fierce debate. Well, twenty-four really, Steve mostly watched, despite knowing that participation was part of the grade for the course. How was he supposed to know what Fitzgerald meant or Steinbeck? When he finally commented during last Thursday's class - saying Gatsby didn't reflect the realities of life in the 1920s - the others had mocked him mercilessly. At which point, he lost his temper. He shook his head ruefully, remembering his rant.

"You want to know how I can judge what life was really like in the 1920s? I was there. I lived it. I watched my mother eaten from the inside out by tuberculosis. I watched the smartest kid in my high school class take a factory job because there was no place in colleges for working-class kids, no matter how brilliant they might have been. I knew women in my neighborhood who died giving birth to their eighth, tenth, twelfth children. I saw what illegal alcohol did to families, even when it was actually the kind you can drink without dying. Maybe this fantasy was Fitzgerald's life. Maybe people like this existed, but I guarantee you, the vast majority of Americans would not have recognized this as anything other than wishful thinking and the melodramatic moping of someone who already had it pretty good."

At that point, the professor had finally deigned to say something, for the first time since the first class. "So, Mr. Rogers, do you think Steinbeck's portrait of the 1930s is more accurate?"

Steve had had to calm himself down a bit before answering. "I can't honestly say. By the 1930s, I was fighting TB myself and trying to scratch out a living any way I could. I had never been further from New York than Hoboken until I joined the army, and that only got me to the middle of New Jersey before I got sent out on the war bonds tour. And I never really got to visit any of the towns on the tour, much less interact with the people. But from the few newspaper articles I remember reading about the dustbowl and what was happening in Oklahoma, I think it's far closer to the truth than Gatsby."

"You don't think Gatsby holds its own kind of truth?"

"That riches don't make you happy? Maybe, but I can't see why that's enough of a revelation to make this soap opera into literature. Anyone with a soul would know that wealth alone isn't enough to be happy."

One of the other students, still trying to mock Steve, broke in. "This from the guy who's writing his paper on comic books?! Talk about fantasy!"

"Maybe you'll understand this when you're older, son," Steve said with a deliberately patronizing tone, revealing just how far he'd been pushed, "but fantasy can be good or bad. Gatsby is a hollow fantasy; it offers nothing: not hope, not inspiration, not even a fun escape. Comic books, while perhaps not 'literature' in the strictest sense, are the other type of fantasy. They can promote change, remind people of their best selves, and inspire people to become heroes in their own lives, even if it's in very small ways. That's worth about a hundred Gatsbys right there."

"Oh, please. Who needs that crap? We've got civil rights, women's rights, gay rights. Hell, a black man is president. Live a little, grandpa!"

Steve shook his head. "I've listened to all of you for months now. And I can tell that most of you think the world is hunky-dory and that good guys always win and justice always prevails. Because this is the modern world, and if it doesn't, all you need to do is sign the petition, and poof, the injustice goes away. The world doesn't work that way, kids. Because the people perpetrating the injustices? They don't care about what a bunch of spoiled American kids think of them. And they sure don't read petitions for anything other than amusement."

"Hiya!"

Steve was pulled from his ruminating by the cheerful voice. He looked up to see that a young brunette he didn't know had joined him at the table. He quickly looked around, determining that there were plenty of empty tables available. "Do I know you?" he asked, sincerely confused since her greeting was casual enough to imply acquaintance and she didn't seem to have any books.

"Oh, sorry. We haven't met yet. I'm Darcy Lewis, Dr. Foster's intern-slash-wrangler. I came to see if I wanted to do my master's degree here. I was wandering campus investigating the facilities when I saw you and decided to meet you. What were you thinking about so intently?"

"Literature."

"Oh, man. Never take a college lit class! I mean, an intro course to get it off the requirements list, sure, but anything much higher, and you're going to get all sorts of egos and pretension and bullshit."

Steve was taken aback by her description, and her...colorful...language.

Darcy didn't seem to notice, continuing without pause. "Don't get me wrong. Some English majors are all right. One of my roommates was a literature geek, and she was cool, but so many of them are, like, 'you read Harry Potter?! you read whichever book they're looking down on for whatever reason?! you're so lame!' and you just want to strangle them. I mean, honestly. Some of the stuff that gets called literature? Lame. Crap writing and plots out of 'General Hospital'. A lit class is a sure way to ruin your ability to read anything for fun ever again." It seemed Darcy had run out of steam, or perhaps air, as she hadn't seemed to have taken a breath anywhere during her speech.

Steve understood that he should say something at this juncture, but he couldn't figure out what exactly remained to be said. "Er, yes, well. I'm Steve Rogers." he finally offered, holding out his hand.

"I knew that, but it's nice to have it confirmed."

"Dr. Foster is who, exactly?"

"Oh, sorry. Jane's Thor's significant other, if you know what I mean. She's an astrophysicist."

"Like Eric Selvig?" Steve knew the name from the helicarrier briefing before New York.

"Yup. Only she wasn't possessed by Loki, because, well, he's crazy, not stupid, I guess. Eric and Jane work together sometimes."

"I see." And he thought perhaps he did. "So, Dr. Foster is moving into the Tower with Thor, and as her intern, you are too. And you want to continue your studies, and the university is convenient to the Tower."

The girl smiled broadly. "Exactly! And since I hear you're not seeing anyone, and that you can't get drunk, I was wondering if you'd be my not-date to the welcome to the tower party Mr. Stark's throwing on Saturday?"

"Er, not-date?"

"Yeah, see, I just got out of a relationship, and I have a bad habit of hooking up with the wrong men on the rebound, especially if alcohol's involved. But I figure, if I'm at the party with someone, you, I won't run off with some random asshole for a one night stand I'll regret in the morning."

"And how do you know I won't get you drunk and take advantage of you?"

"Pffft!" Darcy waved her hand dismissively. "You're Captain America. You don't do that shit. Everyone knows that. You follow all the rules."

"I really don't know why so many people choose to believe that." Steve sighed. His reputation as a goody-goody was clearly getting out of hand. "Still, I think I can manage to keep my hands to myself for one evening. However, you should know that I don't dance."

"That's okay. I don't either. Well, unless I'm really, really, epicly drunk. But I don't think that'll happen Saturday."

"So I'll pick you up at seven thirty for our 'not-date'?"

"Sounds like a plan! See you then. And, hey, thanks."

"Sure." Steve watched Darcy bounce away, not altogether certain of what had just happened. He groaned, put his calculus book to the side, and tried to focus on his research paper again. Maybe, if Saturday went well, Darcy would be willing to help him with the mysteries of footnotes and bibliographies? He understood the concept, but each journal seemed to have its own format and he didn't know which one was the 'Turabian' format his professor had specified for the paper. He wrote himself a note to ask her.


	5. Welcome to Avengers Tower

**A/N: I apologize for the slight delay. I was going to continue with the university scenes, but the party insisted upon being included. On the plus side, this chapter is even longer than the first one. As always, profound gratitude to the followers/favoriters/reviewers. I'm so glad other people are enjoying this.**

**I own nothing.**

Steve picked up his new tux Saturday morning. It was, officially, the most expensive outfit he had ever owned, even accounting for the fact that it included everything but the underwear. He wasn't entirely certain that it hadn't cost more than his modern, high-tech, carbon-fiber & kevlar Captain America suit. But he had felt like a moron, being the only one at Tony's September surprise party in a regular, if nice, suit. So, after admiring Clint's tuxedo, he asked him where he got it. Clint gave him the name and address of his tailor, assuring him that although the bill would make his wallet scream, the suit would be worth every penny. Having tried the suit on at the shop, Steve had to concede Clint was right; the darn thing made him look like a superhero... even without the uniform.

His next stop was the jeweler's, to pick up the cufflinks he had had made to go with the tux. He had never been one for half measures, so if he was going to own a monkey suit, he would own a monkey suit with all the trimmings. The cufflinks were fairly plain, white gold with a small diamond chip at the center of each. However, the truly observant might notice several concentric rings lightly etched in the gold around the diamonds, subtly mimicking his shield.

His last stop was the florist. Darcy may have called this a 'not date', but it was the closest thing to a date he had ever been on, and he was going to do it properly. He had spoken to JARVIS the day before to ascertain whether Darcy had any floral allergies. Since she was apparently allergy-free, all he had to do was decide what he wanted to say with the bouquet. Of course, under the circumstances, that was something of a challenge. He had spoken to the woman for five minutes, or more accurately, she had spoken to him for four and a half minutes, and he had replied in the remaining thirty seconds.

At the florist, he eventually settled on a bouquet of Blue Periwinkle (early friendship), Larkspur (lightness, levity), Chinese Chrysanthemum (cheerfulness under adversity), and Iris (I have a message for you), accented by Ferns for sincerity, and Baby's Breath (more for the look and tradition than its meaning of innocence). He hoped she liked blues and purples. On a whim, he added a single off-white Chinese Chrysanthemum that could be pinned to her dress.

Whistling, he headed back to the sporty car he had borrowed from Stark, through Pepper, to run his errands.

0

At seven twenty-five that evening, Steve left his apartment and headed to the stairs to descend to Darcy's floor. He knew that the out-of-building guests would be using the elevators, and two flights of stairs were unlikely to do him permanent harm. He had the bouquet in one hand and the corsage in the other. By seven thirty on the dot, he knocked on her door.

Darcy had expected Steve to be on time, since he was a gentleman and all, but she still had to scramble into her high heels. She had done her hair and make up to match her grandma's dress, a sizzling red number that her grandma had worn to some charity thing in the 1930s. She had borrowed it for the freshman formal that she never went to (her boyfriend decided to screw her roommate the night before the dance, in her bed; she had not been amused), but her grandma had told her to keep it, because there would be other dances. And, hey, apparently, Grandma was right. Also, it seemed like a dress the Captain might be comfortable with, as it was not quite as revealing as the dresses she wore when she was looking to wake up with regrets. She skimmed her hands down her sides, making sure everything was where it should be and opened the door.

"Oh, my. You clean up real good, don't you?" she blurted.

Steve didn't know how to respond to that, so he treated the question as rhetorical. In any case, he was having trouble speaking. Darcy's dress was a longer, more formal version of the dress Peggy had worn to the pub the night before she shot him, well, his shield, and Darcy looked every bit as good in it as Peggy had. Finally, he managed to push air through his vocal chords. "Good evening, Miss Lewis. These are for you." He held out the bouquet and the corsage.

"Wow. I don't think anyone's ever brought me flowers. Well, my prom date brought me a corsage, but he had left it in the car for three days, so it was brown and nasty. This one's all pretty and fresh! I should put the bouquet in water, though. Would you like to come in for a sec while I do that?"

"Sure," Steve replied, but he was talking to her back, as she had already started walking toward the kitchen. "You look very nice tonight. Where did you find that dress?"

"It was my grandma's," Darcy called from the kitchen. "I figured if I was going to try to behave myself, it would help not to wear something backless and cut down to there, you know?"

Steve didn't know, but his imagination was more than willing to fill in the blanks. He swallowed hard, grateful they were in two different rooms. He also reminded himself that he was there specifically because he was a safe date, or not date, anyway. He wondered, briefly, why everyone assumed certain parts of him were still frozen in ice. He distracted himself by looking around the small entryway to her apartment, but there wasn't much to see, just a small table with a lamp and a dish where she clearly stored things like her keys to avoid misplacing them. None of the items was particularly remarkable.

Darcy strode back into the hallway with the bouquet. "Well, the vase doesn't really do them justice, but I'm not sure where my actual vase is." She put it on the small table next to the lamp.

"I don't know. I think the glass beer stein kind of suits you. Beautiful, but not stuffy."

"How is it that none of the women who have thrown themselves at you since you thawed out has snagged you? I mean, damn. You bring flowers to a not-date; you're really good with the compliments; and, I'm sure this will come as a shock, you have a totally rockin' bod. Are you gay?"

"No. No. Just, um, getting over a relationship myself."

They left her apartment to make their way to elevator. He wouldn't ask her to walk any stairs in those heels.

"Oh! I didn't know you'd been seeing someone. I'm impressed you managed to keep it off TMZ."

Steve was not a fan of the show, but he did recognize the name, so he had a frame of reference for her comment. "Well, we didn't exactly go out. Peggy was confined to her bed. She had Alzheimer's and some other health issues. She passed on last August."

The elevator doors opened and they got in.

"Peggy? Peggy Carter? Wow! I didn't know she was still alive, or, well, you know what I mean."

Steve nodded sadly. "I'm glad I got to say goodbye properly this time, even though we never did get that dance she promised me." He managed a small smile, barely a quirk of his lips, but a smile nonetheless.

"She must have been a very special lady," Darcy commented softly.

"Yes, a very rare find for the 1940s. One of the best things about the twenty-first century is how many women have her kind of strength. Of course, most of them lack her class. I guess she'd still be a rare find today." He sighed.

The elevator dinged softly and opened on the Avengers' communal living area. Some of the furniture had been removed, and the rest pushed back some to create a small dance floor in the main lounge area. The music was provided by a small string quartet in the corner. Steve suspected that had been Pepper's doing. Steve saw that most of the Avengers had already arrived, but very few of the other guests had. Everyone knew Tony Stark's parties never really started until he got there, usually at least an hour late.

"Have you met the others yet, Darcy?"

"Some of them. I mean, I've known Thor since New Mexico, of course. I met Tony when he invited us to stay, and Bruce when Tony was showing us the labs. And you, of course."

"Well, let's introduce you to the rest of the family, then, shall we? Or would you like me to get you a drink first?"

Darcy was rather nervous about meeting the rest of the team, so she answered, "A rum and coke would be great, if you wouldn't mind."

"Sure." Steve moved over to the bar to get her drink.

"Hello, gorgeous. I haven't seen a dame fill out a dress like that in years. I've missed that."

Darcy turned around to see a dark-haired man, slightly shorter than Steve, who seemed to be channeling James Bond in his tux. She knew, with absolute certainty, that, if she had come alone, he would have been her regretful morning after. "Hi, I'm Darcy Lewis, Jane Foster's intern..."

"Gorgeous and smart. Lucky me."

"Sorry, Buck. I'm afraid she's with me. Darcy, this is my best friend, Bucky Barnes. Buck, this is Darcy Lewis." He handed Darcy her drink.

"Damn it, Punk. You can't just snap up all the smart, classy broads. You have to leave some for the rest of us."

"Well, Jerk, maybe she has a friend."

Darcy decided to stay out of what was clearly an ongoing inside joke. She was also processing being called not only 'dame' and 'broad', but 'classy'. On balance, she decided against being offended. Indeed, she wondered if he'd mind repeating the part about classy so she could email the audio file to her spinster aunt, who had been calling Darcy a hussy since she had grown boobs. She noticed both men were looking at her.

"Er, I have lots of friends, but the only female one that's here in New York is dating Thor, so ..."

"So, I'm stuck finding my own date." Bucky sighed melodramatically, playing up the 'wound' as much as possible.

"Well, you could try arm wrestling Thor again, Buck."

"Do you know how long it took for Stark to fix my arm the last time?"

"Hey, you did get upgrades with it, though."

"I'm getting a beer. Maybe Romanoff will be up for something later." Bucky wandered toward the bar.

"Does he know that Black Widow and Hawkeye have a thing?" Darcy whispered.

"They do?"

"It's all over the internet."

"And you always believe what's on the internet?"

"No, but he was sent to kill her, and he didn't. There must be a reason."

"Well, why don't I introduce you and you can judge for yourself?" He led her over to the archer.

"Evening, Clint."

"Captain." Clint turned away from the window. "Hello." His eyes swept Darcy toes to head.

"Clint, this is Darcy Lewis, Dr. Foster's intern. Darcy, Clint Barton, known as Hawkeye."

"How do you do?" Darcy said as they shook hands. She decided the archer looked...worn in, not old, but definitely like he had seen too much of something.

"I'm good. I'll be better when Tasha gets here. Still not too good with crowds." He looked abashed. "Sorry. When SHIELD went south, so did my last mission. It wasn't pretty."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are you working with someone?"

"Tasha, mostly. God knows she's seen her share of shit go down, so she's a good sounding board. Sam, sometimes, when Bucky doesn't need him. I'm getting there. Oh, hey, Cap!" he said as if he had just remembered something. "It was a good thing I didn't take you up on that Hawkeye fanatic in your study group."

"You mean because you're not gay and he is?"

"That, too, but I stopped to pick up something (I don't even remember what now) on the way back to the tower, and I met this great girl. Her name is Bobbi."

"Did you invite her tonight? I'd love to meet her."

"Nah. She doesn't know about the whole Avengers thing yet; I want to ease her into it, right? Not overwhelm her with one of Stark's parties."

"Yeah, I can see how that could make a girl run. 'Hey, honey. I'm a superhero. And I hang out with Tony Stark!' Definitely take it slow. If you need an entry point, though, Jane and I are probably as normal as anyone gets around here, and I, for one, could use some friends in New York."

"Thanks, Darcy. I might just take you up on that. She's from down South, and she's got a PhD in...biology, I think."

Darcy shrugged. "Sounds like just the type of science chick Jane loves to hang with. And I'm up for anything."

"Good evening, everyone. Sorry I'm late, Clint."

"Worth the wait as always, Tasha. This is Darcy Lewis, Dr. Foster's intern. Darcy, this Natasha Romanoff."

Despite being incredibly intimidated by the living goddess poured into the sexiest dress she had ever seen a person wear, Darcy once again held her hand out, but the Black Widow ignored it.

"You don't want to shake my hand." She pulled back her bell sleeve so that Darcy could see the array of weapons on the gauntlet concealed there. "However, it's very nice to meet you. Welcome to Avengers Tower."

"Thanks." Darcy paused. "Were you planning to kill someone tonight, because I'd really like to not be in the room when you do?"

Natasha laughed. "No, but I believe in being prepared. It's saved my life more times than you can imagine."

Darcy nodded, pursing her lips a bit. "Yeah, I can see how it could do that. But it kinda takes the fun out of the party, doesn't it?"

"So does dying."

"Fair enough."

"People, people, people! You can't just hide in the corner all night! Mingle. Make new friends. Get laid, Capiscle, you might enjoy it!"

Darcy watched as Steve consciously restrained himself from rolling his eyes or, possibly, from punching Tony. She had a feeling it was a toss up.

"Hi, Tony, this looks like a great party," she said to distract the billionaire.

"Oh, my, Miss Lewis, you do do the thing properly, don't you? Hmmm." Tony proceeded to regard her like a cut of meat. "I'm torn. What's your type?"

"My type?"

"Of man. I can think of several of my friends who would love to meet you." His tone implied 'take you home and have the dirtiest sex ever with you'.

"I'm here with Steve."

"Capsicle," Tony gave Steve an appraising look that had the latter blushing furiously, "I withdraw my previous comment. Clearly, you have joined the twenty-first century."

"Tony, Miss Lewis is a lady, and I would prefer that you try to treat her as such."

Darcy was shocked. She had been fairly explicit when she had asked him on this not date; he could be under no illusions that she was some shy virgin, or, really, had any 'honor' left to defend. Yet, here he was, defending her anyway. It was...nice.

"Okay, okay. My most humble apologies, your ladyship. I'm getting a drink. Oh, and Cap, just a head's up that I invited that cute professor of yours. Didn't realize you had a date!"

Natasha turned to Steve. "Cute professor?"

"I think he must mean Professor Shawcross, my history professor. All my other professors are male. Plus, she's the only one he's met, well, sort of. She's nice. She'll get a kick out of all of this." He turned to Darcy. "You should meet her. She can probably give you the inside scoop on the Political Science department at the university."

Darcy found herself unaccountably jealous. He spoke of the professor with such respect. Still, she managed to smile and nod and say, "Yes, I'd like that."

In the next few minutes, she met Sam, who turned out to be another candidate for 'person most likely to cause her one night stand regrets', and Pepper, who pretty much defined classy as far as Darcy was concerned. All things considered, she was beginning to feel very small and out of place. Still, Steve remained at her side through it all, and he was very attentive, making sure she had everything she could need or want.

0

Steve had just brought her a second rum and coke when Darcy heard a tempered female voice.

"Steve, thank you so much for the invitation. This party is quite overwhelming!"

"Professor Shawcross. Good evening. I'm afraid the invitation was Tony's idea. I wouldn't have wanted to seem like I was currying favor. May I introduce you to Darcy Lewis? She's considering the university for her graduate work in Political Science."

Ellery murmured the right social things as she shook the girl's hand. So, he wasn't with the assassin, but he was with someone. It figured. She smiled instead of sighing. No use crying over spilled milk and all. She began to chat with Darcy about the university's PoliSci faculty.

"Punk, what have I told you about monopolizing the beautiful dames? You have to share."

Steve smiled ruefully. "Professor Shawcross, this is my best friend, Bucky Barnes. Bucky, this is my history professor, Dr. Ellery Shawcross." His eyes begged his friend not to embarrass him.

Ellery was shocked into silence. There could be no doubt. He was Bucky Barnes. And he was still a stone fox. Even more so in the tuxedo he was wearing. All of a sudden, she felt like a twelve year old with a crush on the high school quarterback.

"How do you do, ma'am?" he said as he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Er, I'm well, thank you. And yourself?" Ellery desperately fought to regain her equilibrium.

"Much better now that you're here to class up the joint. Would you care to dance?"

Ellery nodded, having once more lost her voice to his charm.

As they walked away, Darcy noticed the slight frown on Steve's face.

"Are you okay?"

He shook his head as if to clear it. "Sorry. It's like Bucky was 100% himself again."

"He won't hurt her, will he? If he loses it, I mean?"

"Sam won't let it get that far. Heck, maybe this will be good for him, help him remember more." Steve sighed.

Darcy frowned. "Why aren't you more involved with his recovery? I can tell you want to be."

"Apparently, because I was his last programmed mission, and because I'm so closely tied up in so many of his memories, it hurts him, a lot, to be around me for long periods or when he's actively trying to remember. Sam's not sure if that's just typical coming out of amnesia pain, something wrapped up with the PTSD, or something HYDRA programmed in to help repress his memories or even just for kicks. They were HYDRA, after all. In any case, I don't get to be around much until Sam okays it."

"That sucks."

"Yes. Yes, it does. But I try to focus on the fact that he's here, he's alive, and he's getting better. And that's a heck of a lot more than I had this time a year ago."

"I think it's my turn to get you a drink. You look like you could use one. What'll you have?"

"A beer would be great, if you wouldn't mind. I'm sorry you're hearing all the bad bits of my life tonight. I swear it's not usually this bad."

Darcy laughed. "Nah, usually it's much worse, but at least you can kill the aliens and evil people." She left to get him that beer, his soft chuckle music in her ears.

0

By end of the night, Darcy was well and truly worn out, and, if she were honest, a little tipsy. Steve had been a perfect gentleman the entire evening. They had even danced some, well, they had held onto one another and swayed back and forth to music, close enough. She found herself wishing, as he walked her to her door, that his hands had strayed just a bit during the dancing, anything really to crack that perfect gentleman-ness. Was that a word? She decided it didn't matter, because it fit the situation. All that polite attention just made her want some impolite attention from him all the more. Maybe this not date hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had.

At her door, he took her key from her and unlocked the door.

"I had a really great time tonight, Darcy, much better than I would have had on my own. I'm glad you asked me to go with you."

"Would you like to come in for a nightcap, Cap?" She chuckled a little at her own joke.

"Thank you, no, I need to be up early in the morning."

Darcy sighed. Clearly, she was not getting laid tonight. Damn it. Okay, that had been the point of asking him, but couldn't a girl change her mind?

"Good night, Darcy."

Steve leaned in, and for a second, Darcy thought at least she'd get a proper kiss, but no, he kissed her cheek like she was his sister or something.

"Thank you again."

"Good night," she sighed, entering her apartment, alone. She had a niggling suspicion that she'd have a new set of regrets in the morning. Damn it.

A/N: Yeah, I'm not sure where the whole Darcy thing is going. It just seems to be creeping in. I guess we'll all find out together. Okay, I'll find out first, but I promise to share.

Oh, and Steve got his information on flower language from .com. Credit where it's due and all.


	6. Baby Steps

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! This one was harder than it should have been. Thank you as always to those of you who have followed/favorited/reviewed. I sincerely appreciate the interest, and I consider it a great compliment. I know I still owe one of you some history info. I haven't forgotten; I've just been busy. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! **

**The book Steve is reading for lit at the moment is the Robert Heinlein book ca. 1968, not the Albert Camus book. It gets quite graphic in places (thus Steve's blushes).**

**I, of course, own nothing.**

Steve spent Sunday immersed in homework: reading for history (and taking copious notes, as the Vietnam War had turned out to be even more complex than he had thought), a problem set and a lab report for physics, a translation for Russian, finishing his notes (including many questions) on _Stranger_ _in_ _a_ _Strange_ _Land_ for literature (all the while wondering how he was going to sit through that discussion without blushing, much less contribute to it), and another problem set for calculus. Usually, he spread the assignments out over the weekend, but with the party the night before, that had not been possible. He knew several of his classmates indulged in parties on both Friday and Saturday nights, and he found himself mystified that they managed to keep up with their work. Still, the homework marathon would leave him only his research papers, the one on comic books for literature and one on the effect of Watergate on the Cold War for history, to work on between classes on Monday.

This suited his plans to a T. He had learned from JARVIS that Darcy usually left her apartment at 8:45 to reach Dr. Foster's lab by 9, usually still munching on a bagel or other portable breakfast. Steve assumed, therefore, that Darcy was not a morning person. Contacting her before his 8 o'clock class would undoubtedly result in a quick rejection. He could wait, however. After all, he had waited seventy years for someone to find him in the ice, and while he certainly wasn't getting younger, according to Bruce, his bloodwork suggested he might not be getting older, either. He had time.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Monday morning, he was in his accustomed seat at seven thirty, the same as always. He was, however, a trifle apprehensive. Bucky didn't remember everything yet, but the vast majority of his 'Steve stories' revolved around Steve getting beaten to a pulp in an alley, so Steve was a little nervous about what Professor Shawcross might have heard on Saturday night.

"Good morning, Steve!" came the professor's usual sunny greeting.

"Good morning, Dr. Shawcross. Did you have a nice time at the party?" Steve decided to hear the worst and be done with it.

"Yes. Bucky is an amazing dancer, and very charming. And your friend Sam is really nice, too. Such interesting work he's doing at the VA, and so important!"

Steve let out a small sigh of relief. If Sam had been there, Bucky would have been diverted from the worst of the 'Steve stories'.

"Yeah, and he's really good at it. He makes the vets that come to his meetings feel really safe, like they can say anything and no one there is going to judge them."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did Bucky manage to survive? I mean I thought, well, everyone thought, he was dead. But he's not?"

"It's a really long story, and not really mine to tell, but the short version is that he was frozen, too, just more deliberately."

"That must have been difficult. When was he found again?"

"About a year ago. It's been a rough transition for him, but he's doing pretty well."

Ellery heard the end of the conversation in his tone. She gave a mental shrug. She had noticed the way Sam had kept a watchful eye on Bucky the whole evening, and, given Sam's current line of work and Bucky's metal hand, she strongly suspected Bucky was still fighting some demons. She allowed herself a moment to fantasize about the assistance the love of the right woman might provide, and then dismissed it as the utter nonsense it was. PTSD was not going to respond to anything short of intensive therapy.

Ellery was not without other topics of conversation, however. "Your friend Darcy seemed nice."

Tension Steve hadn't realized he'd been carrying left his shoulders, and a small grin crept onto his face. "Yeah, she is."

"How did you meet her?"

"She's Dr. Foster's intern, even though her degree is in political science, not astrophysics." Steve frowned a bit. "I'm not certain how that happened, actually."

"Hm. I don't believe I know Dr. Foster, but then I don't know many of the science faculty."

"Oh, no. Dr. Foster isn't with the university. She, well, I guess she works for Stark Industries these days. She had grants from SHIELD, but those obviously went away."

"I didn't know Stark Industries was interested in astrophysics."

Steve shrugged. "I think it's mostly Tony's interested in keeping Thor happy, and if Jane's happy, Thor's happy. Or it might have been Pepper's idea. Come to think of it, it probably was Pepper's idea. Generally, the best ones are."

At that point, Steve's classmates began to file in, ending their conversation. Ellery realized that she hadn't gotten her question about Steve's relationship to Darcy answered. Indeed, that the girl was Thor's girlfriend's intern only muddled things more. He could be dating her, or he could have been doing a favor for a friend. Damn it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After class, Steve left quickly, before the professor could pick up their conversation. He wasn't in the mood to be asked questions he couldn't answer. Plus, he wanted to put his plan into action.

He sat on a bench beneath one of the trees that lined the walkway to the library and pulled his phone from his bag. Despite all of Tony's ribbing about his lack of technological aptitude, he had taken to modern devices quite readily. He touched the text message icon, called up Darcy's cell number, and began typing:

Darcy - Thank you again for asking me to attend the party with you. I had a great time, much better than I would have had on my own. I hope you and Dr. Foster are settling in to your apartments and lab. I was wondering if I could pick your brain after supper tonight. I have two research papers this semester, and both require citations in something called "Turabian". To be honest, I've never even done a research paper before these two. I have them written, and I know what I need to cite (anything that's not mine or common knowledge), but I'm not sure how to insert footnotes and how to format them. I thought we could work at that coffee shop on the corner. That way, Stark won't distract us by mocking my lack of knowledge. Thank you again for going with me to the party! - Steve

He knew it sounded stilted and formal, especially in a text (he was pretty sure he was expected to replace 'your' with 'ur' or some such nonsense), but it also sounded like him. Plus, his mother, rest her soul, would climb out of her grave and box his ears if he didn't thank Darcy properly for the honor of escorting her to the party.

If Darcy was amenable to meeting at the coffee shop to help him with his papers, perhaps she would feel likewise about joining him there later in the week without the excuse of his schoolwork. He felt he was being quite crafty, really. A self-satisfied smirk graced his lips as he hit 'send'.

He gathered his things, put the phone in his pocket, and headed to the library to finish editing his literature paper.

At the library entrance, he pulled the phone back out to make sure it was set to silent. He noticed he had a text. It had only been about five minutes, so he was surprised to discover it was from Darcy:

Cool. Turabian is just a citation style - no big. & putting in ftnts is no big 2. Happy to show you 2nt. Had fun the party 2. Thx 4 going w/. c u l8r. :) D

He managed to decipher the symbols well enough for a goofy grin to spread across his face. He had made it from 'not date' to 'work date'. All that remained was to ask her out on a real date. Baby steps.

**A/N: and y'all thought Darcy was going to have to make the next move... silly! he's 95, not dead. Hee.**


	7. Some Things Can't Be Calculated

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but again, longer chapter! As ever, thank you to all who are paying attention to my little story, especially those who have favorited/followed/reviewed!** **I, of course, own nothing. Enjoy!**

Monday night had gone exceptionally well. And Steve only felt better about his scheme as the week went on. On Wednesday, again waiting until class let out, he texted Darcy about meeting for coffee, socially, on Friday evening. He knew he should have asked in person, but he knew himself well enough to know that would have ended in disaster. Plus, he had it on good authority (Darcy herself) that nearly all social interaction began via text or 'social media' in the modern world. He had already added 'social media' to the list in his notebook.

He was gratified to see her positive reply come in even before he reached the library. To be fair, they hadn't even done that much work Monday night. It turned out Turabian was a citation style in which the footnote format was essentially the same as the bibliographical citation except with the author's name given first name followed by last name and the addition of a page number at the end, and inserting those footnotes merely a function of finding the right prompts on the right menus in his word processing program. So, they had had plenty of time for chatting after he had practiced the procedure a few times. He deliberately put her out of his head and went to back to work finishing his papers, so he wouldn't have to worry about them Friday night.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Thursday morning, he compared notes with George about the next semester. They had both decided to take the second semester of intro physics, George because he was considering it as a major, Steve because he felt like he was beginning to understand more of the conversations that used to go over his head in the labs and he rather liked it. They settled on a lab section that fit both their schedules, so they could continue their partnership there. They suited one another, and neither wanted to try out some kid who might not be paying as much attention as was necessary. War was dangerous enough; they shouldn't have to fear for their lives at school.

"You going all artsy-fartsy on me, old man?" George asked when he saw the courses Steve planned to take.

Steve smiled. "Always been artsy-fartsy, grandpa." He pulled out the sketchbook he usually carried with him, the one for public consumption, with nothing...untoward...in it. "Take a look."

George leafed through the book slowly, blowing out a soft whistle at a sketch of his grandson's ride with Falcon, with George's face and Gabe Jones' face looking up proudly from where the ground should have been. "Damn, boy, I'd love to have a copy of that."

Steve had forgotten the original sketch was in that book. "So much for secrecy," he muttered.

"What, now? I don't have super-special enhanced hearing, you know."

"Merry Christmas. Only I thought you'd prefer it as a painting, so it's not quite done."

George's face lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. "Really? That's about the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long while, Steve."

Steve gave his patented 'aw, shucks' grin, "Least I could do for my first not-secret-agent, not-super-soldier, not-SHIELD, and so forth, friend. It's been really great to have someone to talk to about stuff other than missions, and well..."

"I am truly honored, Steve, truly honored." Before Steve could start critiquing his work (George could see it coming), he continued, "So you going to be an artist professionally?"

Steve shrugged. "I doubt it. I think people would be more interested in buying it because it's 'BY CAPTAIN AMERICA' than because they like it. And that wouldn't interest me. I did my stint in the dog-and-pony show. But I've never really had a chance to study art, so that's why the art history. And the Computer-Assisted Design because, hey, I live in a building with the most advanced computers in the world, I might as well use them."

"And the Russian?"

"Long story, not really mine to tell, but it's useful in any case, with what's going on in Ukraine right now. I like being able to watch the news without the filter of what the American news networks think I should know."

"I hear that. And you're sticking with the math, huh?"

"Yeah, although I'm hoping to get a different professor. The current guy's okay, but I think someone else might suit me better. What are you taking next semester?"

George nodded, but before he could answer Steve's question, the professor came in and started the class.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Steve settled into his seat for calculus and got out his calculator and a few pencils. He didn't bother with trying to cram in the last few minutes before the test began, because he knew it wouldn't help. He looked up when he heard his professor's voice raised and agitated.

"No, he cannot go with you. I don't care what the excuse is; I do not give make-up exams, and I will not be making exceptions just because he thinks he can gin up some fake world-saving mission and get out of it."

Steve smiled a bit to hear the professor give it to Stark or whomever had come for him, until he heard the other voice and realized just who had come for him.

"You know, pathetic little college professors really shouldn't piss off ex-assassins still recovering from induced psychosis and being sent to kill their best friends. That sort of thing could prove..."

That had him jumping out of his seat.

He got out into the hall just in time to put himself between the professor and Bucky before Bucky's metal arm lashed out. He grabbed it with all-too-practiced ease. "Bucky, we've talked about the civilian issue."

"C'mon punk. We, well, you have a mission. Apparently, they still don't trust me in combat yet."

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "Can't see why not. I mean, you only just almost took out my professor when he was only restating the clear policy laid out in the syllabus."

"It's not like he's going to get to give his damned exam anyway. They'll be evacuating everyone to the basements in about fifteen minutes, less even, if you don't help out."

The professor looked appalled. "WHAT? What the hell is going on?"

"Pretty minor doombot invasion. Just a little too close to campus for the administration's liking. So, I delivered my message. Now, where's that sweet little history prof I was dancing with the other night? I thought I'd offer my bodyguarding services for the duration."

Steve laughed at the blatant leer in Bucky's voice and on his face. "Sorry, Buck. She's an adjunct. She's only here on class days. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she's at City College, teaching another course."

Bucky shrugged. "Well, there are plenty of hot coeds around."

"Bucky, you're how much older than them?"

Bucky grinned, so much like himself that Steve's heart ached. "I won't hurt 'em, punk. Much."

Steve's cellphone began whooping, alerting him to a priority message from the Avengers. He looked at it. "Shit, Buck. I thought you were joking."

"Nope. Suit up."

Steve turned to the professor, whose face had gone pale when he caught a glimpse of the video playing on the phone, "Sorry, sir. I really am going to have to miss the exam. I understand if you feel you can't let me make it up."

The professor cleared his throat. "This once, I will make an exception. If. If. If you are in my office as soon as the battle is over. No shower first, no stopping to reassure your secret girlfriend you're okay, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

Bucky nodded at Steve, "You have a secret girlfriend and you didn't tell me? What kind of best friend are you?"

Steve nearly slapped Bucky. He settled for rolling his eyes. He turned back to the professor. "Of course, sir. I will be at your office immediately after the battle."

"Very well." The professor turned away to arrange for a basement room in which he could give the exam to all of the other students in the class despite the battle.

Steve ran to put on his uniform, trying really hard not to think about what Bucky might do during the emergency.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The battle had lasted long after anyone anticipated. It turned out the doombots were just the first wave of the assault. Nevertheless, the Avengers had turned back the onslaught, and had even managed to do so with only minimal damage to the city.

Steve had begged off the debrief, agreeing to submit a full written report instead, in order to accede to his professor's demand that he go straight from the battle to the college. Which was stupid. Because it was three o'clock in the morning, and the professor was home in bed. Still, Steve had the sense that the professor was enough of a hardass that if he didn't comply fully, he wouldn't get to take the damned test. He did stop in his history room to leave Professor Shawcross a note, letting her know that he would get the notes from Alexis or Tim from the study group and apologizing for missing class. He did not mention Bucky.

When he arrived at the calculus professor's office, he was unsurprised to discover the door was locked and the lights out. He sighed and slid down the wall to take a catnap while he waited.

The professor was confused to see a pile of dirty blue fabric outside his door as he walked up the corridor at eight thirty. He was even more confused when he realized it wasn't a pile of dirty blue fabric, but rather Steve in his dirty, bloody uniform. "Rogers? What are you doing sleeping outside my office?"

Steve woke with a start. "You said to come straight here from the battle, so that's what I did."

The professor sighed. "I wasn't...I didn't mean it literally. Do you have a spare set of clothes in a locker here somewhere? If so, go down and take a shower at the gym, and then come back to take the test. You kind of stink."

Steve nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll be back in about a half hour."

When got back, he discovered the professor had collected his school things from the classroom the day before, for which he was grateful. The graphing calculator, in particular, had been a present from Bruce, and he didn't want it stolen.

The exam turned out to be straightforward enough. Not easy, but not especially difficult. Or it wouldn't have been especially difficult if he hadn't spent fifteen hours in combat the day before. Even so, he thought he had done well enough not to damage his average too much.

He desperately wanted to go back to the tower and sleep, but he knew if he did, he wouldn't wake up for his date tonight, much less his Russian class. And that reminded him that he hadn't gotten to do his Russian homework yesterday. He sighed and headed to the library to finish it before class.

His phone buzzed as he was packing up his Russian books to grab a quick bite to eat before Russian started. He glanced down to see an incoming text. He frowned as he saw that it was Darcy offering a rain check for their date that evening. He knew that she didn't, couldn't, know what had happened the last time someone had given him a rain check on a date, and he knew that she was trying to be nice, but yeah, no, he'd be at the damned coffee shop, come hell, high water, or more damned doombots. His reply was somewhat less emphatic, merely 'No, I'm okay. I'll see you tonight." Still, he wasn't altogether certain how coherent he'd manage to be, but the coffee might help.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Steve had made it through Russian. Thankfully, the professor had watched the battle on television, and elected to let him absorb the lesson of the day on his own, rather than pressing him for participation.

He had been so tempted to lie down and nap when he returned to the tower, but he knew, with only a few hours of shallow catnapping in the last fort-eight hours, that he would never wake up for his date. So he took an extremely cold shower to shock his blood into flowing again and guzzled a couple of energy drinks. Then he set about considering what to wear.

He settled on a pair of khaki pants, ones that Pepper had sent over after he had moved in, suggesting they were more up-to-date than the ones he had purchased on his own, along with a button-down shirt in a royal blue Oxford-cloth that did nice things for his eyes according to Natasha. The tan combat boots were all his choice, but given the way his life tended to go, not an unwise one.

He made it to the coffee shop with five minutes to spare. He claimed a table, ordering a triple-shot espresso for himself (blessing the campaigns in Italy for giving him the ability to drink the stuff black) and a pumpkin mocha for Darcy, since that was what she had ordered on Monday. He also ordered a bunch of pastries. The sugar wouldn't hurt.

He stood when Darcy arrived, his eyes quickly taking in her tight jeans and light blue sweater. "You look lovely," he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

"You look like shit."

Just then, the waitress came over with their coffee and pastries.

Darcy turned to her and said, "Actually, could you pour the mocha into a to go cup and wrap the pastries? You can toss whatever caffeine-laden crap he ordered to stay awake. Thanks." Darcy fished her phone from her purse, along with her wallet, completely ignoring Steve's stunned expression. "Hey, Clint, it's Darcy. Steve and I are at the little coffee shop on the corner. He's about to keel over, and I don't think I can get him back on my own. Little help? Great. Thanks." Darcy turned back to Steve. "Why didn't you just take the raincheck? I totally wouldn't have minded."

"The last time I got a raincheck for a date, I ended up frozen in a glacier for seventy years."

"Oh. Yeah, that'd put anybody off rainchecks. But you are not really here here, so we are going to postpone this until you've had some sleep, ok?"

Steve nodded reluctantly.

Clint showed up as the waitress was handing Darcy her mocha and the bag of pastries, accepting her cash with a happy smile when Darcy made it clear she didn't need change.

Together, they walked Steve back to the tower, although neither of them could be sure he wasn't going to pass out on them.

In the elevator, Darcy expected an argument from JARVIS about letting them onto Steve's floor, since neither she nor Clint lived on the same floor as Steve. However, when she asked, the AI replied, "Yes, that seems prudent under the circumstances, Miss Lewis." Moreover, it continued, "Captain Rogers' door has been unlocked. Unfortunately, the other occupants of his floor are currently occupied and cannot be interrupted at this juncture, so they will not be able to assist you. Also, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are occupied in the same task. As you are aware, Thor and Dr. Foster are away this evening."

Clint grunted, "We can handle it. He's just dead on his feet, not really dead."

When they reached the apartment, Darcy got the door and Clint helped Steve through it and straight into his bedroom.

"Darcy, grab a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for him to sleep in, would you? Then turn down the bed." Clint led Steve into the bathroom and closed the door behind them.

Darcy nodded and turned to the dresser. She quickly found both of the requested items. She brought them to the bathroom door, which, after a perfunctory knock, she opened the door just enough to stick her hand through with the clothes. "Not looking!" she stage-whispered.

Then she turned to her second assigned task, the bed. It was more rumpled then she would have expected, but then she saw a sketchbook on the far side and realized he must have been drawing in it before their date. She put the sketchbook on the coffee table in the living room, so it would be out of the way, and then returned to pulling down the covers so that Clint could help Steve into bed.

She finished just in time, as the bathroom door opened and the two Avengers made their way slowly to the bed in a weird impression of a three-legged race. Clint got Steve into the bed and turned to Darcy. "I'm supposed to be debriefing Nat in half an hour, so I've got to go."

"'S all good. Thanks for your help."

"Sure. When he wakes up, we're all going to want to know why he didn't sleep after the battle. I mean, school's important and all, but geez, get the notes from somebody!"

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. Thanks again." She walked him to the door and shut it behind him.

"Darcy!" came a soft cry from the bedroom.

Darcy sighed. "You're supposed to be getting some sleep."

"Don' go anywhere, 'kay?"

She tucked the blanket tighter around him. "I won't. Now go to sleep."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Steve woke to the smells of frying bacon and brewing coffee. He could tell by the angle of the light through his window that he had slept right through his usual morning run and workout. Looking at the clock beside his bed, he discovered that he had managed to sleep until 8:30, which was practically unheard of for him since the serum. He wondered who was cooking, but decided to be polite and brush his teeth first.

A few minutes later, feeling refreshed, he wandered into his living room, where he realized that someone had spent the night on the not-terribly-comfortable couch. Entering the kitchen established that the person in question was Darcy, who was turning the bacon onto paper towels.

Darcy heard Steve enter the kitchen. "Oh, good, you're up! Feeling better? The pastries from last night are on the table. You can bring the bacon in too. Coffee's in the pot. I wasn't sure how you take it when you're not trying to pull a double all-nighter. Do you mind if I use the same pan for the cheesy eggs?"

Steve processed most of that and finally ended up with one question. "Cheesy eggs?"

Darcy shrugged. "Scrambled eggs with grated cheddar cheese. Not fancy, but tasty."

All of a sudden, Steve started to tear up.

"Hey, if you don't want eggs, that's cool. I just figured with..."

"No, no," he interrupted. "Eggs would be great. It's just..."

"Just what? The cheese? I can leave it out."

"No. The cheese is fine." Steve sighed and collected himself. "It's just been a really long time since someone made me breakfast."

"Oh." Darcy was speechless. What was there to say? 'I know where you're at'? Clearly, she didn't and couldn't. Finally, she settled on, "Well, then, best to eat it while it's hot!"


End file.
